


Vulgar Endearments

by StalineBC



Series: Vulgar Endearments [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Capital Wasteland, F/M, Megaton, This is silly.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-02 05:59:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4048834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StalineBC/pseuds/StalineBC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of little ficlets about my Lone Wanderer, Janie Santos, and her casual dealings within the Wastes.<br/>Everything from fluff to smutt to angst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sympathy for the Dying.

Miss 101 woke bleary-eyed, with a throbbing in her skull and aches in every possible joint. Her skin itched, muscles spasmed, and even her bones burned with electric-like jolts.  
She was dying.  
Janie was motherfucking dying. She couldn't think of anything that had felt this horrendous before, ever. Every heartbeat pumped shards of glass, every inhale was like sucking in dust.  
The Vault Legend was dying. There was no other explanation.  
"Charon?" she called weakly, and again, slightly louder. The panic was palpable in her voice.  
Janie might have smirked when he burst into the room, but it was too damn painful. Eyes alert, shirtless, dish rag in one hand, combat knife in the other, he was the epitome of Guardian and Defender. But then he looked at her, limp and tangled in bed. His stance relaxed immediately.  
"What?"  
"I'm dying."  
"Oh."  
"'Oh'... 'Oh'? I am lying here, in utter agony, and all you can say is fucking 'Oh'?! I'm dying!"  
"No, you aren't." His expression settled into something resembling annoyance and reluctant fondness.  
"Yes, I am."  
"No, you aren't."  
"For fuck's sake, Charon! Yes, I am! And whose fucking fault is it? You were supposed to protect me, keep me from endangering myself! You're suppose to stop me from doing stupid shit!"  
Janie tried to sit up, but cramps clutched her stomach and twisted, making her fall back. Continuing her rant, she cursed him for his inability to stop her, for letting her to do this to herself. For everything that he had failed to do last night. She swore at him bitterly as another cramp shook and ravaged her body, curling inward until her messy, pink hair brushed her knees. And for the first time in a long time, Janie cried.  
Charon, to his credit, sat on the bed and rubbed her back as the pains subsided. He reached into her desk and pulled out a Rad-Away, administrating it with practiced hands.  
"Why?" came the pathetic mewl from his contorted employer.  
"Because you said you could do it. You said had to do it. It was a matter of honor."  
"Yes, but I'm an idiot. Or so you keep implying."  
His mouth twitched, but he kept silent.  
"Why was I so stupid. So fucking stupid."  
"I believe you said it would be worth it. I also remember you saying that it was, directly afterward."  
"Get my handgun, I can't do this."  
"They are downstairs."  
"Go get it." Janie growled between gritted teeth.  
"I cannot." came the stoic reply.  
Her eyes narrowed, "I order you to go get my fucking gun."  
"I cannot."  
"Why?"  
"It goes against my programming to assist my employer in their attempt to kill themselves."  
"Then what the fucking fuck happened to that little rule last night?"  
"Kid, it isn't my fault you bet Billy Creel two-hundred caps that you could drink the whole bottle of Gob's irradiated scotch and not puke."  
Janie snorted and leaned her head against his thigh.  
"You are such a dick."  
 He placed a gentle hand on her head, stroking the pink strands and buzzed sides.  
"Yes, but I'm your dick."


	2. Good Enough

Charon sees her tense before she even realizes she's done it. That subtle pull of copper skin over taut muscle, the way her back straightens a little, shoulders not-quite ridged.  
He also knows it's not a good thing, which this shithead doesn't. If he did, he wouldn't be leering at her the way he currently was.  
And then Janie softens again, cocks a hip out, turning towards the guy. All sparkly white teeth and big, smokey green eyes.  
"What did you say?"  
Sugary sweet voice, laced with a little hate. It was sexy, and dangerous, and it made Charon shudder. He knew what that voice meant, but to this burnt-out fucker, it was practically an invitation.  
The slaver grinned at her, squinting in the sun. He was leaning on an old table, legs crossed.  
"I said 'Hey, Sugar Tits, how much for a ride?'"  
Three short strides, and she was next to him, running a finger down his arm, grinning back michieviously.  
"With charm like that, you might just get one for free. What's your name, big guy?"  
Charon's jaw muscle twitched, just barely. That was what she called him. He instantly wanted to rip this guy's cock off and shove it down his throat. But instead, he stared ahead at nothing, becoming what Janie needed from him right now; just another slave.  
"Oh baby, we don't need names, now do we?" He trailed a lazy hand up her thigh. It took all of her will not to grab it and break every finger.  
"Aw, but how am I suppose to know what to scream?"  
The dirtbag chuckled, "It's Forty, and I'm gonna rock your world, baby."  
"Well, I'm Janie, and I have a bit of trading to do before anyone rocks anyone's world." She turned and gave Charon a look that always managed to set his blood on fire, no matter what they were doing. "Ghoul, how much ammo do we have?"  
"Enough, Mistress." He said, face unreadable, but milky blue eyes meeting hers with a spark, "We are, however, low on frag grenades."  
"Then we'll just have to make do without them, huh?" She flashes him the most radiant smile he has ever seen, and pulls the handgun from her belt.  
Four loud pops later, Forty was now an Ex-Slaver, who also happened to be missing a couple possibly significant body parts. And when the newly dead man's compatriots came running to see what the commotion was about, they, too, wound up with a few extra holes and and a lot less blood.  
All in all, it's about three hours later that they've cleared out Paradise Falls, and another two pass as they disarm the slave's collars.  
Janie was practically glowing, and not just from the minor case of rad poisoning she always seemed to have. She took his hand, and dragging him towards the bathrooms and a Pulowski can, labeled 'The Box'.  
She pulls him out of view with a look in her eyes that he feels in his bones. Delicate fingers trace his jaw and chin. Before he knows what's happening, she stands on tip-toes and kisses his ruined cheek. His hand finds her hip, and she smirks again. Lips soft and full and in need of his. But then that damn slave woman, Bleak, calls out for someone, and they break apart, all business again.  
Despite that, Janie was still grinning like a fool. They did good work. Like really good work. So good, in fact, that Charon was actually smiling, too.  
"Who's missing?"  
"Rory. Rory Maclaren, or something like that. He tried to run off again a few days ago. Th-they took him to The Box..."  
Charon doesn't say anything as Janie finds the key in her pouch, but he doesn't feel right. He doesn't look at Janie, as she opens The Box. He tries to think of the good they've done today. He tries to will that into her, that he knows they did good today. But then a body tumbles out, still limp from fresh death, and he knows it wasn't good enough.  
In the Wasteland, nothing is ever good enough.


	3. Punishment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poorly written smutt. There, I warned ya.

Hardened hands grip her thighs, pulling her closer to his rough skin. Janie whimpered, nearly there. The feel of him inside her was like an ember, slow burning, glowing. Encompassing.  
Charon took his time, caressing sensitive velvet skin with callused fingers. She arched into him, mumbling incoherent words. He was pretty sure he heard his name on those beestung lips, but wants it to be louder, clearer. He needs to hear her call for him.  
And she does, slowly louder with each thrust. She tries to buck against him, but those strong, torturous hands keep her firmly in place. He pulls all the way out, teasing her clit with his head.  
"Charon, God! I can't... please, please..."  
He smiles, nipping a sunkissed calf with sharp teeth, and plunges in again, full hilt, pounding his hips against her own. She moans, long and loud, echoing off the metal walls.  
"Close, please... A-almost there."  
With a few hard thrusts, Janie clenches around him, bringing him deeper. It feels like she's pulling out his soul. It doesn't matter if she is or even can, it's been her's since she bought that scrap of paper. It will always be her's, since she freed him.  
He doesn't want to stop, but knows she can't take much more. He grabs her wrists, pinning them above her, and pumps franticly.  
He comes suddenly, near painful from want and need and demand. It's been just two short weeks, but right then it felt like eternity. Two short weeks of hungry looks and chaste pecks, of innocent touches and sultry smiles. It was carnal torture, and she took her punishment shamelessly.  
He collapses on top of her, trying not to crush her and failing miserably. She giggled into his chest, relishing in the feel of roughness against her cheek.  
"Ya know, that isn't exactly the sound a man wants to hear after that."  
Her giggles turn into a full blown laugh, and she pushed him to the side, snuggling in close.  
"Dont worry, Big Guy, it's definitely a good thing."  
He grunted what could have been approval, reaching across her for something to clean up themselves with. The only thing close enough to grab was his shirt. He shrugged and she giggled again when he offered it.  
"Sweet Christ, Charon. After that performance, I'll be lucky to walk again."  
"You got what you asked for." He said smugly.  
"I don't remember asking for that, exactly, but I ain't complaining."  
"And I don't remember asking for a two week cockstand, but there ya go."  
She cuffed him on the arm, and tried to dodge his grip, but he was faster. He held her arms above her again, pinning her with his body, and stared down into her husky green eyes with a mischevious glint.  
"Physical violence invalidates my contract." He harsh voice was like static against her skin. She clamped her legs around him and smiled.  
"Whatcha gonna do, Big Guy? Punish me?"


End file.
